


One Night in Woodstock

by LadyAJ_13



Series: One Time in Oxfordshire [3]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Cats, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Post-Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 12:16:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20192137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: Morse is stationed out in Woodstock, and Shirley comes visiting.





	One Night in Woodstock

**Author's Note:**

> I thought Morse changed quite quickly from 'we must find the killer' at the end of season 5 to 'nothing we can do' at the start of season 6 – especially for one who likes to unravel puzzles and hold onto things as tightly as he does. So this partly came out of me questioning that.
> 
> For those who have read 'Maurice', about Morse ending up with a ginger Tom cat... well, he makes an appearance here :)

The door opens, and Shirley takes in the figure before her. “Uniform,” is all she manages to say, taken aback.

Morse glances down, as if he's forgotten the sharp jacket, polished shoes and buttons that blind in the light. “Only place they had for me.”

“Suits you.” He rolls his eyes, but its the truth. Not the meaning behind the uniform, never that – its rules and regulations, its 'speak when spoken to', its 'don't think, just do'. But the cut of the clothing, and the colour. Yes, that suits him. He doesn't move to let her in, so she sighs and elbows past.

“Travelling heavy for a social call, aren't you?” he asks, closing the door and shutting out the last of the day's sun as she puts down her suitcase.

“I've come all the way from London, I thought I'd stay a few days.”

“With me?”

“Why not?” He looks vaguely scandalised, eyes darting left then right. She grins, and teases, “we have done it before, after all.”

“Undercover,” he chokes. “As man and wife.”

“No one will be looking through the windows this time.” She noses around his work space, but its devoid of most personality, so wanders instead through to the back rooms; a small kitchen come living room and a tiny bedroom. “I'll be fine on the couch.” His face twists, but he lets it go and brushes past her to put the kettle on.

“What's that then?” she asks, when they're settled with their tea.

“What's what?”

She brushes her top lip. “The new look.”

“Oh. Just... trying something new.”

“Hmmm.”

“You don't like it?”

“Bit of an acquired taste perhaps.” He looks a little despondent, and she changes the subject. “Running the place out here then are you? That must be nice. No one to answer to.”

Morse places his cup back in its saucer slightly too hard; she winces at the sound. “They've mainly got me chasing lost livestock.” He brushes his upper lip, and she wonders if she's made him self-conscious or if its a new habit. “You though. Scotland Yard.”

“It's great,” she smiles. “I mean, it was difficult. To start somewhere new, especially after...” She glances up, and something understanding in his eyes allows her to let that trail of thought go. She'd worried she might drown in it on this visit; it was partly why she'd made herself book the train ticket in the first place. But also why she'd arrived at Oxford station and caught the first bus to Woodstock, a place with no memories, no associations, just Morse. And even Morse has changed, at least to look at. It makes it easier to avoid dwelling. “But I'm out of uniform.” He grins at that, and it's enough like the one she used to see so rarely – bright, proud – that she mirrors it, and ignores the way his hands brush against the fabric of his trousers.

-

They get half-cut that night. There's only one corner shop in the village and it's selection is terrible, so they make do on Morse's stash of whiskey, and cheese and biscuits. She twirls around to some mad, dramatic score with one hand round a glass and the other conducting an imaginary orchestra so badly Morse winces, until the music turns maudlin.

The spirit goes to her head all of a sudden, and she collapses against him on the couch, record playing out into the darkness. She lets her head tip on to his shoulder, bony as anything, and feels him tense in response.

“I don't-”

“I know, Morse,” she whispers. “You know it's not like that.”

He relaxes, and he must have shifted somehow because now her head is against his chest instead, and that's much more comfortable, and he's taken the glass out of her hand, and...

-

She wakes up in his bed, alone. She groans as she sits up, the movement awakening a headache, but sees him through the open door, curled up on the couch. He's taken off her shoes but otherwise she'd be presentable to head down the shops, so she feels no shame in tiptoeing out to the kitchen and grabbing a glass of water.

“Can I have one?”

“I don't know Morse, can you?” She pours another and deposits it on the table next to him. The record player is still turning, playing silence, and she flicks it off. “I'll even bring you aspirin if you tell me where it is.”

“Top left cupboard.”

After the aspirin, she roots out tea, milk, and even some bread which will just about still do for toast. She delivers the breakfast with a glare. “Don't get used to it,” she warns.

“Don't get used to being made breakfast by my temporary house guest? I'll try.”

They eat in silence, then Morse gets up and throws open a window. A cooling breeze eases her headache (or is that the aspirin kicking in?) and a large, fluffy ginger cat jumps inside.

“Is that Maurice?!”

“Yeah,” he smiles awkwardly as the cat ignores Shirley entirely to twine around Morse's ankles. “He likes it out here at least.”

“I'm sorry, Morse.” He looks strangely vulnerable, she thinks. Its probably the way he's stripped down to his t-shirt to sleep. Combined with hair all over the place and a fluffy cat meowing for his breakfast, he looks young despite the god-awful facial hair. “It'll sort itself out?” she tries, though they both know there are no guarantees.

“I'm not sure I can get whoever did it. There's nothing to go on.”

“The others-”

“We're scattered, we're not-”. He doesn't seem to know how to finish his sentence.

“It's not okay,” she says, and winces at the hurt that flashes across his face before he manages to hide it. “But it's not on you. It's not on any of us. It's okay to let it go.”

He hangs his head, scraping a hand through his hair, and despite the cosy domesticity of this place, she can see its wearing on him. Morse wasn't made for simple crimes in sleepy villages. “I shouldn't-”

“If anyone _shouldn't_, Morse, I'd think it'd be me.” 

“No, you-”

“I'm allowed to move on but you're not? He was my _boyfriend, _Morse.” Her voice catches. “I didn't even go to the _funeral_, I couldn't stay there just another couple of days-” He stops her with arms circling tight, and despite their easy contact the previous evening, it feels like the first time she's relaxed in a long while. She's getting on well, in her new life, but while the girls in the boarding house are nice, and the other coppers are generally friendly, she hasn't really got any friends yet. No one who understands, anyway. She clings to him and buries her face in his shoulder. No tears, at least. 

“Maybe we both can,” he says hesitantly, one hand moving in soothing sweeps up and down her back. She nods, holding on, and feels soft fur brush against her ankles.

By the time her grip lessens, they've both pulled themselves together. She steps back. “I should go. I'm meant to meeting with a couple of friends for shopping and lunch.”

He gestures to the bedroom. “Leave your stuff here, if you want.”

“I said I'd stay with them tonight.” She never actually got around to opening the suitcase, so just picks it up in one hand while slipping into her shoes that Morse had lined up next to the record player. “But thank you, for the hospitality.” Morse grins as he sees her take in the empty whiskey bottle, and the crumbs of stale bread littering the kitchen.

“Any time.”

She's halfway down the road to the bus stop, little ginger shadow in tow, when she hears him clear his throat behind her. He's grabbed a shirt, mostly done up, but is still shoeless – he'll have chins wagging about him if he's not careful. “Honestly Shirley. Any time.” She laughs at him, and reaches down to pet Maurice, before scooping him up.

“Thanks Morse,” she says, depositing the ball of ginger fluff in his arms. “Now you best take him back or he'll get on the next bus to Torquay and you'll never see him again.”

“Torquay?”

“Lots of mice out there, I hear.” She strokes under Maurice's chin, and he purrs, stretching his head back to give her better access. “Birds too. A cat paradise.”

“I'd better be careful then.”

The bus rumbles in the distance, and that's really it now. She leans forward, impulsive, and kisses him feather light on the cheek before running to flag it down, juggling her purse to find her return ticket. By the time she's stowed her case and found a seat, the bus has pulled away and Morse is out of sight, but its okay. She'll see him again. She leans her head on the cool window, and scrubs a hand across her face.

That moustache really is itchy.

**Author's Note:**

> With this I have now posted over 100,000 words of fanfic on AO3! I joined in 2013, so been working on it a while, but that's still mind-blowing to me... ;O


End file.
